


a remedy for all things

by Tyranno



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superboy (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Slow Burn, Talia is a good mother, everyone still has their powers, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: After escaping the league of assassins, Talia needs a new home for her and her son to hide out--and stumbled across Hamilton county. It's quiet, remote, unassuming, and best of all, in the backyard of the most powerful man on the planet.Damian and Jon become friends almost by accident.





	1. Chapter 1

When he saw Mr. Robertson push back his desk chair and stand, a thick stack of test papers in hand, Jon closed his eyes and began to pray. 70%. 70%, a C-, was all he needed. He heard his teacher walking around the room and he tensed, eyes screwed shut. 70%, please, please.

Mr. Robertson passed his desk and he head a soft noise as his paper dropped onto his desk. Jon’s eyes flew open and his heart sank. 69% stared back at him, the D+ grade written in a quick scrawl over his name marker.

Jon grumbled to himself, head in his hands, “D-plus.”

“Study more,” Mr Robertson said, passing a marked test to his neighbour, “Vocabulary is the cornerstone of the language.”

“I was only a mark off...” Jon said.

“One mark can mean a lot,” Mr Robertson moved through the isles of desks, “People often miss by a mark.”

“Can’t you round up?” Jon whined, “All I need is—”

A sharp pain in Jon’s side cut him off and he spun around. A boy he didn’t recognise sat beside him, pencil still outstretched. The boy was dark, with shockingly pale green eyes and black hair so dark it was almost blue. His sharp eyebrows were drawn together.

“You’re so loud,” The boy snarled, “Stop complaining.”

“Sorry,” Jon said, on instinct, “My parents needed me to get a C-.”

“Why didn’t you study, then?” The boy snapped.

“I did study!” Jon said, “I did all of the worksheets.”

“Well, no wonder you failed,” The boy said, “This man’s teaching is atrocious. Self study is your only hope.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Jon whined, “And that doesn’t really help me now. When I did practice tests—”

Quick as a viper striking, the boy ripped the test from Jon’s hands and began flipping through it. His heavy eyebrows furrowed deeply, until he scanned the last page and his expression changed to a smug satisfaction.

“Mr Robertson,” The boy said, loudly.

“Yes, Damian,” Mr. Robertson turned.

“You’ve marked _Intéresser_ ’s english translation as _to interest_ being the only correct one, and so marked Kent’s answer of _to affect_ as wrong,” Damian said, “But _Intéresser_ can mean both. For example, _La balle a traversé son corps sans intéresser les poumons_. In that phrase it means _affects_. Your marking is wrong.”

“Oh,” Mr. Robertson adjusted his glasses, regarding the boy with surprise, “Yes, I think so. Sorry, Jon, you can change that mark.”

Damian dropped the paper back onto Jon’s desk with a scoff, “Amateur.”

“Thank you so much,” Jon shuffled through the paper to change the mark, “I don’t think I’ve seen you in class before.”

“You’re not very observant,” Damian said, “I transferred into your school yesterday.”

“Your name’s Damian, right?” Jon asked, “I’m Jonathan Kent.”

“I know, I read the name on your paper.”

“Your French is really good. Are you fluent?” Jon peered over his arm to see Damian’s test had 100% scrawled across the top.

“Obviously,” Damian said.

“It must be pretty boring to be in these lessons,” Jon said, “like you’re sitting in on kindergarten lessons again or something.”

“I imagine so,” Damian drawled, “I never went to kindergarten.”

“You didn’t?” Jon frowned at him, “Where—”

“Boys,” Mr Robertson said, loudly, “Stop talking.”

*

Jon didn’t see Damian in his biology class after lunch, though he kept an eye out for him. When Damian wasn’t in the changing rooms for gym, Jon decided that the other boy’s presence in his French class was just a fluke. That was, until Jon followed the other boys onto the field and saw Damian lounging by the goal posts.

Jon sprinted up to him, “Damian! You weren’t in the changing room.”

“I changed in the bathroom,” Damian said. He was sitting in the sun, eyes closed and basking.

“Why’s that?” Jon asked.

“I like my privacy.”

Damian wasn’t quite dressed in the school’s gym uniform. He wore the right shirt and shorts, but underneath them, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark gym leggings. From the hollow of his throat to his toes he was covered up, except for his hands.

“Aren’t you hot?” Jon asked.

In lieu of an answer, Damian’s eyes snapped open and he rolled to his feet. He began to stretch, catlike. He was shorter than Jon by half a head, with slimmer shoulders, but even though his sleeves it was clear from the small bulk of muscle that he wasn’t a stranger to exercise.

“Boys, gather round,” The gym instructor beckoned them all closer and began the lesson.

It was summer, and most of the boys were buzzing with energy. The gym instructor split them into two teams and started a soccer game. At first, he stuck close to Damian, until the boy informed him, firmly, that they were on opposite teams so would be enemies for the hour.

Jon really enjoyed soccer. In the summer, every step kicked up the fresh smell of grass, the wind smelled fresh and clean. He enjoyed the challenge of stealing the ball, the thrill of a victory—even just the running around, although he had to be careful not to run too fast.

Still, that game was different. Jon could feel Damian’s eyes on him, watching him like a hawk.

*

Jon spotted Damian in his English class next period, but the boy was sitting on the other side of the classroom. Jon focused on his work, but stole glances over at Damian when he had the chance. The other boy looked bored, scratching at his papers which Jon suspected were doodles.

When the bell rang for the end of the day, Jon stuffed his belongings back into his bags and bounded across the classroom, “Damian, let’s cycle home together.”

Damian was still closing his books and putting them in his bag, “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Well, where do you live?” Jon said.

Damian closed his backpack and threw it over his shoulder. By now most of the class had already filtered out into the hallway, but there were still groups of kids who clumped together, talking and laughing, which Damian had to navigate around.

Just as Jon hoped, Damian headed for the bike shed. His bike was a little bigger than Jon’s, with a sleek black frame and yellow-tinted wheels. It was a road bike, light and slim, with broad and narrow wheels. Jon unlocked his smaller, kid’s bike with its chunky wheels.

“I live near the smith farm,” Damian said, when he saw Jon was still following him, “Southward, over the hill.”

“No way!” Jon beamed, “You’re practically my neighbour!”

Damian frowned, swinging a leg over his bike, “I won’t slow down for you.”

“Don’t worry,” Jon said, climbing onto his saddle, bag already resting in the front basket, “I’m probably faster than you, anyway.”

Damian scoffed and pushed off, rolling into the road. He started to peddle, but only a little, letting the bike glide down the shallow slope. Jon peddled hard to catch up with him.

The sun was low in over the hills, but the sky was still a bright, cheery blue. A few clouds clustered over the treetops. The air was cool and fresh. Barely any cars passed them as they rode, but it was always like that. Jon’s route home was usually lonely—most people lived in the other direction, closer to town—and even those who lived in Jon’s direction usually drove home.

Jon kept his eyes fixed to Damian. He couldn’t explain his fascination with the new boy, but he wanted to know everything about him. But the other boy had a distant look, and as minutes of silence passed it seemed harder and harder to say something.

As they rode, the sun sunk a little lower in the sky. It was that point in summertime that was teeming with hot evenings that seemed to stretch on forever. Flies buzzed over the road in tiny clouds.

They passed Jon’s farmhouse, but Jon still hadn’t managed to say anything, and he had a strange feeling that Damian was about to slip away into the night and he wouldn’t see him again. So Jon rode on in silence, along the darkening roads.

Together, the two of them climbed the steep hill that was south of the Kent house, and finally Jon saw another house in the distance. He’d never been very close—it was someone else’s property and was too far away from anything to drive past.

As they approached, Jon realised it was bigger than he had assumed from a distance. It was around twice the size of Jon’s house, and relatively new. The white walls of the large cottage gleamed like a pearl in the sunset.

Damian slowed as they approached the house and stopped at the bottom of the long drive.

“Damian, can I ask a question?” Jon asked, peddling faster to draw level with him. He jumped off his bike

“You’re probably gonna ask me anyway,” Damian said, although when he glanced over his shoulder his expression was less irritated than usual. Jon took that as a good sign.

“If you’re fluent in French,” Jon said, “why don’t you do AP French? Or even skip grades?”

Damian tutted, “If I skipped grades for every subject I was sufficiently over-educated in, I would’ve graduated already.”

“But still,” Jon said, “Maybe it would be more interesting—”

“What about you, then?” Damian asked, “I noticed you were holding back in gym class. You tripped up and you gave up the ball far more than you should have.”

“I’m just kind of clumsy,” Jon said, startled.

“No. I’m certain it was deliberate,” Damian said, climbing off his bike, “For whatever reason, you’re faking ineptitude.”

“Uh, no,” Jon waved his hands, “I’m really, really just—”

Damian’s hands flew to Jon’s face, his palms pressed into Jon’s cheeks. Damian’s thumb brushed against Jon’s eyelash. Jon’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. He forgot what he had been saying, his tongue thick in his open mouth.

“I knew it,” Damian’s eyes narrowed, “You’ve cycled all this way and you’re not even hot.”

Jon knew he should say something, but he couldn’t get his brain to work. Damian was very close. His hands were surprisingly rough against Jon’s face, his fingers battered and calloused.

Damian released him and returned to his bike. He began wheeling it up his path, “See you tomorrow, Kent.”

Jon closed his mouth. He only remembered he hadn’t said goodbye a few moments later, and by then Damian had already disappeared into his house. Jon stared up at the house for a long while. He swallowed.

His face tingled a little, where Damian’s hands had been. He turned his bike around and set off back down the hill, thinking to himself, it was a good thing Damian hadn’t tested him then. His cheeks were now very hot indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> I had a long explaination written out but basically --> talia won't be abusive in this fic


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It won't be mentioned for a few chapters, but Damian's surname in this fic is actually the alias Head, because Al Ghul is a little incriminating.

Damian was in his French class the next day. Jon didn’t know why, but he was surprised. It felt to him like Damian was almost too good to be real.

Mr Robertson was talking about adjectives and nouns in French, a few generic sentences changing behind him as he talked about _the lazy brown dog_ as opposed to _the bright green door_. Damian looked bored out of his mind.

Damian didn’t look his way for most of the period and Jon tried not to look at him either. Georgia, who usually sat next to him in French, had swapped seats to talk with a girl she had recently joined the track club with. It stung a little that she hadn’t mentioned it yesterday, but then again he had been accidentally ignoring her all day.

“Now,” Mr Robertson said, “I know all these tests are very dull, so I thought I’d spice it up a little. Your next assignment will be a group project, in pairs.”

A murmur of talk rippled through the room.

“I’d like at least two pages of a retelling of a fairytale in French,” Mr Robertson said, “And I’ll know if you copy and paste it, or if you use google translate. I’m going to let you pick partners yourselves as long as you submit the work before the end of the week.”

Jon glanced at Damian, who didn’t even look up. He was scratching something into his notepad, and as Jon peered over his shoulder he recognised it as a dog.

“Damian?” Jon asked.

Damian grunted.

“Do you want to be my partner?” Jon asked.

Damian glanced up and frowned.

“In the project,” Jon prompted, “We have to do it in pairs. You can come over to my house tomorrow, if you have time.”

Damian considered that for a moment, “Sure.”

*

Truth be told, Jon did not have many friends. He was nice enough, so he had a few dozen people he’d sat next to long enough to exchange a nice word with, to share work and to remind each other about home-works. But he didn’t really have anyone he was close enough with to invite over, nobody to share secrets with.

It probably didn’t help much that he was, well, being bullied.

A hand snatched the back of Jon’s jacket and wrenched him backwards.

Surprised, Jon dropped everything he’d been holding. Books flopped from his arms, his lunch box cracked against the plastic floor. He wheeled around to see an older boy, hair bright blonde with dark eyes.

“Calvin?” Jon asked, startled.

Calvin Dwight, the head of the soccer club, shoved him against the lockers, “You’re in big shit now, Jonathan. I bet you thought you were slick, but you’re actually stupider than you look.” Seven of the soccer team’s other main players crowded around them, like a pack of hyenas.

“W-what?” Jon frowned, “What did I do?”

“Don’t act dumb,” Calvin’s hand was still holding a fistful of Jon’s jacket, “Last week money went missing from the soccer petty cash, and today you come in with a brand new bike. You think that would’ve escaped my notice?”

“That wasn’t me,” Jon said, “I didn’t even know money went—”

Calvin slapped him.

Jon stumbled a few steps, the shock of the blow wiping his mind. He stared up at him, dazed.

“Stop lying!” Calvin snarled, “You’ve always been suspicious. I know you’re hanging out with that creepy new kid.”

Calvin raised his hand again and Jon flinched, eyes flying shut.

After a few seconds of nothing, Jon opened his eyes, blinking. He glanced back up at Calvin. Calvin’s arm was still raised, but another hand wrapped around it from behind.

“I presume I’m the _creepy new kid_ ,” Damian drawled, “I must admit, it’s somewhat of a cliché. But you’re probably too stupid to think of anything original, so I’ll forgive you.”

Calvin yanked his arm out of Damian’s grip, disgruntled. The other members of the team shifted around, unsettled. Damian stood with his shoulders sloping, posture relaxed. He stared Calvin down cooly.

“Back off, kid,” Calvin said, “This isn’t about you.”

“I know,” Damian said, “But I’ve been itching for a fight for weeks. And you’re big and dumb enough to give me one.”

“That’s twice you’ve called me dumb,” Calvin snapped.

“Wow,” Damian smirked, “I didn’t think you could count that high.”

Calvin swung at him, and Damian leaned back a step. The fist sailed harmlessly past his nose.

“Disappointing,” Damian said, voice ringing with disdain, “I’ll give you another go—remember you’re trying to _hit_ me.”

Calvin growled and swung again, so hard he almost overbalanced. Once again, Damian dodged almost lazily.

Jon glanced around the crowd of older boys. He could feel the agitation in the air and how Damian was fuelling it. He knew, with a sixth sense, how close this would slip into real violence. “Damian...” Jon murmured, “You’ve made your point. We should go.”

“I’m not done,” Damian tilted his head, “But perhaps we should wrap this up.”

“Damian, was it?” Calvin snapped, “Don’t act like you can just—”

Damian punched him in the throat.

Calvin’s head snapped back and he stumbled, clutching his neck. His friend took a step forward and Damian slammed his foot into the boy’s solar plexus. Before he had even fallen, Damian vaulted over him to snatch another boy by his long greasy hair and drive his nose into Damian’s knee. The next boy got his ears boxed, a fifth was kicked into a trash can. The sixth’s knees gave out when Damian jammed an elbow into the back of them, the seventh was knocked into the lockers and collapsed.

Damian glanced around the hallway to see if he’d missed anyone. He hadn’t. In under a minute, eight of the biggest, toughest boys Jon had ever seen had been reduced to quivering messes on the floor. Damian stood among them, self-satisfied and strangely happy.

“Are… are you alright?” Jon asked.

“Me?” Damian said, inspecting his split knuckles, “Just peachy, really.”

“Boys!” A woman shouted.

Jon glanced up and froze. A teacher stood in the hallway, surveying the wreckage Damian had dealt. She seemed to struggle for words, adjusting her glasses. Calvin was vomiting into a trash can, looking close to death.

“Principles’ office!” The teacher shrieked, “Now!”

*

“I don’t believe this,” The Principle massaged his wrinkled forehead, “You’ve been at this school, what? Three days, Damian?”

“It’s not his fault,” Jon protested, “He was trying to protect me!”

“And there was nothing else he could’ve done?” The Principle narrowed his eyes, “He couldn’t have gotten a teacher?”

“Um, he acted on instinct?” Jon suggested.

The Principle fixed his gaze on Damian himself, who was lounging in the chair next to Jon. Damian didn’t seem to be interested in defending himself, and instead was picking at the band-aids over his split knuckles.

“Damian, are you listening to me?” The Principle prompted.

“No more than usual,” Damian said, without looking up, “What did I miss?”

The Principle sighed through gritted teeth. Jon worried his lip, glancing between Damian and the Principle.

“Damian, this is not how you deal with issues,” The Principle said, “This kind of—of vigilante justice is not acceptable.”

Damian snorted, “Tell that to society at large. Vigilante justice seems perfectly acceptable out there.”

“This isn’t society at large,” The Principle said, “This is high-school. And I don’t want to expel you, but I may have to if this continues.”

Damian raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond.

“Does that mean you won’t expel him this time?” Jon asked, hopeful.

“Not this time,” The Principle said, “You vouching for him helps his case, but I don’t like his attitude. I won’t be able to protect him from the PTA or governors for much longer.”

“Right,” Jon said.

Damian frowned deeply, but said nothing. He began to chew his nails, still refusing to look at either Jon or the Principle.

“Both of you are dismissed,” The Principle said, “I’ve called your parents, Jon, but we couldn’t get through to your mother, Damian.”

“I’ll text her myself,” Damian said, launching himself up from the chair and stalking towards the door, “She doesn’t respond to unfamiliar numbers.” The door slammed behind him.

“Thank you,” Jon said to the Principle, “He’s prickly but he does appreciate it.”

“Hmm,” The Principle said, “He’s lucky to have such a good friend as you, Jon.”

Jon blushed and ducked out of the Principle’s office. He closed the door gently behind him. The waiting room was pale and lifeless, and Damian was sitting on the narrow couch, looking listless. A television screen above him flickered through power-point slides advertising school baking classes and PTA meeting times.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, sitting opposite him.

“Why are you always asking that?” Damian snapped, “You can see I’m uninjured.”

Jon didn’t quite know what to say to that. He examined a small needle-less cactus that sat on the waiting room table.

“I don’t understand that man,” Damian jerked his head towards the Principle’s office, “I used non-lethal force. I didn’t even break many bones. What’s his issue?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, solemnly, “Calvin and his gang have been hitting the younger kids for ages. Nobody seems to care.”

“That’s because they’re too scared to complain,” Damian snapped. He shifted in his seat, shoulders stiff.

Jon watched him out of the corner of his eye. The fight had been strange. He realised now that all of yesterday Damian had been a tense kind of bored and it had only been during the fight that he had been genuinely happy. In the Principle’s office, however, he had slipped into a malcontented unease again.

“Thank you,” Jon said, “For—for protecting me.”

“I wasn’t protecting you,” Damian snapped, “That was just an excuse.”

“Still,” Jon said, “I think you looked really cool. And you’re really good at fighting.”

“Hmph,” Damian grunted, but he seemed a little more relaxed, “Calvin mentioned a new bike?”

“Yes,” Jon beamed, “I have you to thank for that, too. My parents gave it to me for getting a C on that test yesterday.”

“You’re welcome,” Damian said, opening a magazine.

*

“Jon?” Lois pushed open the door to the waiting room, “Sorry we’re late.”

Jon jumped up and felt suddenly awkward. Lois and Clark did not looked particularly happy. Clark shifted his briefcase in his hand.

“Come on, Jon,” Clark said, “We’re going home.”

Jon nodded, scooping up his bag. He paused, and glanced at Damian, “Is your mom coming, Damian?”

“Hmm?” Damian asked, “No, she’s not in the country.”

“What?” Jon startled.

“She’s on a business trip,” Damian said, “She’ll be back next month.”

Clark frowned at him, “You’re a little young to be left on your own that long.”

“And you’re a little _nosy_ for a stranger, Kent,” Damian snarled at him.

Clark bridled, taken aback.

“Are you going to get home alright?” Lois asked, unperturbed.

“I’ll cycle,” Damian stood, throwing his back onto his back, “I have lights on my bike.”

“It’s quite dark,” Jon murmured, but Damian was already stalking out. The door swung shut behind him.

“Interesting kid,” Lois said.

Clark frowned at her but said nothing, leading his little family outside. It was already mostly dark, the school parking lot was a mass of greys and greens, the warm lights of the school office like owl eyes in the dark.

Jon climbed into the car, settling into the back. Clark put it in reverse. The lights in the car were dark and the radio light blinked. There were small lights in the darkness, and Jon strained his eyes to see Damian standing by the shed with his bike. He was very still, and watched them closely, waiting for them to leave. Then, their car swung out onto the road and Damian was whipped out of sight.

It was clear Clark had been watching Damian through the window. He dragged his eyes back to the road. “That Damian kid,” Clark said, quietly, “He seems… troubled.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lois said, “He’s kind of cute. Like a baby vampire.” She put her hands next to her face and used her forefingers to make mock fangs.

Clark sighed. He was well aware of his wife’s strange adoration of unusual, small dangerous things. He remembered an early date he had with her to the zoo, where she had fawned over crocodile babies, insisting they were adorable. Clark only saw little lizards, already sporting long needle-sharp teeth.

They drove in silence for a long while. At night, the landscape was dim and mysterious. Jon leaned his head against the shuddering cold glass of the windows and waited nervously for one of his parents to start scolding him.

“I don’t like you fighting, Jon,” Clark said, glancing at his son through the dashboard mirror.

“I wasn’t fighting,” Jon said shortly, “I didn’t even fight back. Damian did. To protect me.”

“You should have gotten an adult, a teacher,” Clark said.

“Damian had it handled.”

“No, he didn’t,” Clark said, “You can’t fight fire with fire. He’s only going to have to keep fighting them, with that method.”

“That’s not what he said,” Jon protested, “Damian said you could stop the bullying by finding the toughest guy and—” Jon stopped short. Making him your bitch, Damian had finished with, but Jon seriously doubted his parents would appreciate that kind of language, so he finished somewhat lamely with, “...defeating him.”

“Sorry, kid,” Lois said, “But those are prison rules, so they don’t apply.”

“Damian said high school was a kind of prison,” Jon said, sulkily.

Lois laughed.

“Lois,” Clark scowled at her.

“Sorry,” Lois said, “It was funny, to be fair. This angry little kid is growing on me. I kind of want to meet him.”

Jon perked up, “Oh, I forgot to ask—he’s my language partner and I said he could come over tomorrow—is that okay?”

Lois smiled at him, “Sure, kid. Just no more vigilante justice for the moment, okay? At least not until you’re older.”

Jon beamed at her, nodding quickly, “Yeah, I’ll tell Damian.”

Clark said nothing, resigned but unhappy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to be confusing, but i changed my mind about Damian and Jon's ages. In this fic Jon is 14 and Damian is 15.

Damian and Jon arrived at the Kent farmhouse at dusk. Jon took both their bikes and wheeled them into the garage.

From the house, there was a thumping sound, and a tall white dog bounded out onto the porch and barrelled down the path. The dog collided with Damian at full speed, almost knocking the boy over, tail wagging at high speed.

“Someone’s popular,” Lois said, leaning on the front door.

“He could probably smell the dog treats in my pocket,” Damian said, fishing dog treats from his jacket. Krypto bounced on the spot, tail thumping.

“You have a dog?” Jon asked, reappearing from the garage.

“No,” Damian said, having Krypto sit before dropping a treat into the dog’s mouth, “But I knew you did. I like dogs.”

“I never told you about Krypto,” Jon frowned.

Damian walked past him, “You have white dog hair all over your Jean cuffs. It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure it out.”

Jon glanced down and flushed. He scrubbed at his jean cuffs, hopping after Damian.

The Kent farmhouse was a warm place, with low ceilings and walls covered with photographs—ranging from reprints of influential photographs like _lunch atop a skyscraper_ or _Earthrise_ to photographs of Jon as a baby and what looked like Clark with his elderly parents.

“What do you want for dinner, Damian?” Lois asked, ducking into the kitchen.

Damian was still being accosted by an overexcited Krypto, “It doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Lois called back, “Make sure you take off your shoes. I just had the floor steamed.”

Jon tugged the other boy into the living room.

*

“ _Un jour… une fille, um, appelé—_ ”

“Wrong. It’s _appelée_ , two e’s for the feminine form.”

“There are already two e’s in it.”

“Don’t be so obtuse, Kent. Two e’s on the end.”

Jon, trying not to get annoyed, wrote another _e_ on the end of the word, “ _Une fille appelée Cinderella—_ ”

“Perhaps _une fille qui š'appelait Cendrillon_ would sound better. It’s in the past tense.”

“Cendrillon?” Jon frowned at him.

“It’s the French form of Cinderella,” Damian supplied.

Jon scrubbed a hand down his face, “Fine. _Un jour, une fille qui š'appelait Cendrillon_ —um, _qui vivait avec… materner_ —”

“ _Belle-mère_ ,” Damian corrected.

“Why don’t you write this?” Jon snapped.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Damian continued to sketch in his notebook, “Because it’s a learning exercise and I have nothing to learn from it.”

Jon sulked, writing a few more words.

It was a hot evening, and with Lois cooking in the other room, the whole house started to almost shimmer with heat. The downside of such a quaint old home was that the a/c was very dodgy, and had guttered out of life only the previous weekend. Damian began to peel off his socks.

“ _Un jour, une fille qui š'appelait Cendrillon qui vivait avec Belle-mère, et deux souers—demi-soeurs_ ,” Jon stuttered, “ _et Cendrillon…. Cendrillon était_...”

There was a moment of silence.

“ _Nettoyer?_ ” Damian suggested.

“Um,” Jon said, “Um, Damian.”

“Yes?” Damian glanced up. He frowned when he saw where Jon was looking.

“Your foot,” Jon said, “You’re—you’re missing a toe.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Damian snapped and shifted his feet under him. On Damian’s left foot, he was missing his little toe and a chunk of the sole about the size of a dime. The wound was very old and healed over dark and rough.

“Did it hurt?” Jon asked.

Damian scowled at him, “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Sorry,” Jon averted his eyes, nose buried in his French textbook.

Krypto, who had been lazing by the table, shifted closer to Damian and draped his head over Damian’s lap. Jon’s pencil hovered over the page, pointedly not looking at the other boy. Damian glared. He could tell Jon was still distracted.

“It was probably some kind of animal,” Damian suggested, irritation biting at him.

“Animal?” Jon said, “Like a dog or a racoon or what?”

“I don’t know,” Damian said, “I was too young to remember. I was probably a baby—perhaps one of my nannies wanted something to remember me by.”

“Eww,” Jon went a little green, “Don’t even joke about that. That’s so messed up.”

Damian smirked.

“So, er, _Nettoyer?_ ” Jon prompted.

“Yes,” Damian said, scratching Krypto’s head, “ _Cendrillon était toujours en train de nettoyer_...”

*

Much later, Lois was cleaning up the wreckage of their study session—overturned couch cushions, dog treat crumbs, ripped notepad pages—and she unearthed a slim green book. Flipping it open, she was greeted by dozens and dozens of pencil sketches. There were rocky vistas, strange people, a few pages filled with studies of knives and swords.

“Jon,” She called up the stairs. One of the benefits of kryptonians was she never had to raise her voice much—although Jon’s hearing hadn’t quite reached his father’s yet, it had always been unnaturally sharp.

“Yes?” Jon leaned over the bannister.

Lois held up the slim book to him, “Is this yours?”

He took it and flipped through it, “Must be Damian’s. Look here’s Krypto!”

Lois admired the pencil sketch of her dog, “Sure, remember to give it back to him tomorrow, then.”

Jon crouched, continuing to flip through the pages. He chewed his lip, “Can I go tonight?”

“You know where he lives?”

“Yes, just over the hill. It’s like a five minute cycle. Please?”

Lois looked out through the window. It was completely black outside. There wasn’t much traffic at any point during the day, but she thought of a truck driving too fast down the country lanes and knocking Jon skyward. She sighed. It was hard to be overprotective, considering what she allowed her husband to do.

“Fine,” She said, “But use your lights. And make sure you wear something fluorescent.”

“Thank you!” Jon bounced up and sprinted to his room. Lois watched him go, amused. Her son reminded her of a big puppy sometimes.

*

Jon approached Damian’s house slowly. He had the sketchbook nestled in his jacket, protected from a cloudy sky that was trying to rain. The sketches were truly incredible and formed so fast. With only a few strokes, Damian turned what had been a random mess of lines into a dog, or a mountain. It seemed almost like magic.

The world was dark, Jon’s torch cutting through the night. He knocked on the front door. There was no response. No lights were on in the house.

Jon stepped back from the porch. It was cold. Water seeped into his trainers.

He was about to leave when he saw a light in the darkness. Behind Damian’s house, a small shed glowed faintly, the windows squares of light in the murky blackness. Jon padded towards it before he had even had time to think.

As he approached, a strange noise reaching his ears. Something being struck, over and over, with the odd pained grunt. Jon bristled, a strange twist of fear in his gut.

Jon peered through the window, knees sunk into the wet, cold grass.

Damian stalked around an empty gym, circling a hanging sandbag like a hunting cat. His hair was slicked back, black tips beaded with water. He had stripped to an under-shirt, skin glowing with sweat under harsh fluorescent lights. It was his bare arms that Jon’s eyes were drawn to—the scars which were raised in thick cords, thrown into sharp relief by the lighting.

Damian had a thick scar around one wrist and halfway up his other forearm, almost as if he was a Frankenstein’s monster stitched back together. Both elbows were calloused, like a dog which slept on stone. A burn scar tightened the skin over his upper left arm, wrinkled red and long-healed.

Jon shrunk back from the window. He hadn’t been able to forget Damian’s missing toe, despite his attempts to ignore it, and faced with the evidence of more violence, more old wounds, his stomach flipped.

He must have made some noise, because Damian straightened—and met his eye.

Jon bolted.

He didn’t know why the look Damian gave him was so frightening; something about the cold shock of his vivid green eyes, the tension in every muscle like a coiled spring. Jon crashed through the dark undergrowth, not even sure which direction he was running. His heart thundered.

Damian tackled him from behind.

Both of them crashed into the tall, black grass, tangled like a wolf with a deer. Jon struggled, but Damian pinned him with ease, shoving him back into the cold earth.

“You’ve got a death wise, creeping around here,” Damian snarled, his anger shockingly intense. Jon had thought he’d seen Damian angry before, but he hadn’t—none of the other boy’s persistent annoyance came close to the cold fury which radiated from him now.

“No!” Jon squawked, “I-I was just returning your—your sketchbook!”

Damian towered over him, hands still pinning Jon firmly to the earth. His bright eyes were cold and scoured Jon’s face like he was trying to peer inside him.

“Honest!” Jon tried to cringe away, mud sticking to his hair, “You left it at my house!”

“Where is it?” Damian asked, voice still icy but looking less like he was about to tear the other boy’s throat out.

“My jacket,” Jon gestured with his chin, wrists still pinned.

Damian shifted his stance to free one of his hands and unzipped Jon’s jacket. The dark shape of the sketchbook flopped onto the wet grass. Damian picked it up and flipped it open. It was dark but the pages were so white they seemed to glow in the gloom, and Damian could make out the ghostly marks of his drawings.

“This was all?” Damian asked, curtly.

“Yes,” Jon said, “I didn’t mean to spy.”

Damian shifted back a little, still on top of Jon but freeing the boy’s hands, “I suppose any group would be foolish to send you as their assassin. You can hardly throw a punch, you don’t seem the killing type.”

“Thanks?” Jon asked, heart still hammering, “Are you expecting many killers?”

Damian tutted and released him, standing in one short motion. Jon scrambled away from him, shaking dirt from his hair like a wet dog. He stood up and rubbed his shoulders.

“I saw your scars,” Jon said, and then felt like an idiot. He could _still_ see them—though faintly—as unnatural shadows on Damian’s arms, small faults in his silhouette.

“You can’t tell anyone about them,” Damian snapped, suddenly, “You can’t tell your parents and you can’t tell your teachers.”

“I won’t,” Jon said, quickly.

“I mean it,” Damian snarled, “Or you’ll wish I’d killed you tonight.”

“You—You were going to kill me?”

“I still can.”

Jon believed him. To be the focus of the fury in Damian’s gaze at that moment—it was like a very bright light being shined into his eyes. He flinched away.

“I won’t tell,” Jon said, “I promise. I can keep secrets.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, and the boy searched Jon’s face for a long moment. Whatever he saw, Damian seemed satisfied, and after a long moment his shoulders relaxed. He regarded Jon with a look that was hard to read.

“Thank you for returning my sketchbook, Kent,” Damian said.

His voice was so normal Jon almost stumbled back in surprise. He struggled to gather himself, and finally managed to get out: “Well, sure. Any time.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jon’s mind was always buzzing about Damian. He didn’t know what he’d spent the long lonely school hours thinking about before, but Damian Head had arrived at his school and shaken everything else out of his mind.

And from the chatter he overheard, he wasn’t the only one.

What Damian had done—the take down of eight of the most muscular students in school, all years older than him and twice his height—had resounded through the school. All the students could talk about was the new kid. Even the teachers discussed him in short, truncated conversations, ending abruptly when they noticed Jon in hearing range. But unlike Jon, it wasn’t pleasant things. Everyone was scared of him. They glanced at each other behind Damian’s back, they gave him a wide berth in the hallways. When he answered questions in class, a hush fell over the students and they all looked at him like he was contagious. _Freaky_ , Jon heard them say, _Creepy_. He even heard a upperclassman tell her friend Damian worshipped the devil and cut up little animals on Sundays.

“Pay attention,” Damian ordered when he saw Jon looking distracted. Behind the library shelves, the conversation between two classmates floated towards them—detailing how Damian apparently ate a piece of roadkill raw outside the school.

“They’re lying,” Jon hissed back, standing up in his seat, “I should go say something.”

“Sit down,” Damian said, pushing a sheet of writing towards him, “We need to finish this before next period.”

“But they’re talking about you,” Jon protested.

“I don’t care what those plebeians say about me,” Damian said, “And neither should you try to defend my honour.”

Jon wavered for a moment, before sitting back down. It was hard to believe, but Damian really didn’t seem to care at all. If their situations had been reversed—Jon didn’t even want to think about what it would be like for someone to lie about him like that.

“I don’t get it,” Jon pulled the sheet of writing towards him.

Damian shrugged one shoulder.

“All you did was defend yourself,” Jon read the lines of French, “It’s not like you’re about to snap and kill someone.”

“Don’t count on it,” Damian drawled, “If you don’t finish proof-reading in the next five minutes I may prove you wrong.”

“There’s no point me proof-reading if I don’t understand the words you’re using,” Jon huffed, “Like, what does _Finalement_ mean?”

“ _Eventually_ ,” Damian said, snatching the paper from his hands, “I’ll just finish it then.”

Jon watched him scribble down the final few lines of the fable. He swung his legs under the library desk. Hamilton High’s library was a small, squarish room with walls plastered with plasticky posters with cartoon book worms on them. The classmates who had been talking about Damian’s raw roadkill snack had obviously spotted the two of them and split sometime while they were talking. Jon glanced around. The librarian was gone as well, thumping around in the back room.

“Where did you, er...” Jon leaned forwards, “Like, yesterday, I saw your scars. Can I ask about them?”

Damian waved a hand, “They’re from training. Nothing more mysterious than that.”

“Training?”

Damian didn’t stop writing, “Yes, training. Did you think I was born behind able to take down eight upperclassmen in under thirty seconds?”

“So someone taught you to do that?” Jon said, “Even though you’re really young?”

“Are we being slow this morning?” Damian snapped, “Yes, I was— _trained_.”

“Sorry,” Jon said, reflexively. “I’m only asking because… it’s really cool. Like, you’re really strong.”

“Is there a point to this?” Damian asked, “There’s something you want to say, Kent. Just say it.”

Jon swallowed thickly, “Can you train me?”

Damian stopped writing. He glanced up, eyebrows drawing together. He scrutinised Jon for a long moment, hard, like he was trying to read his mind. Jon tried to keep his expression clear and brave.

“I don’t think you’re tough enough,” Damian said.

“I’m tough!” Jon said—and kicked himself when it came out squeaky. Damian regarded him cooly. Jon rubbed his chest and waited until he was sure his voice would be level: “Besides, isn’t training supposed to make me tougher anyway? So it’s alright if I start off a little…”

“Soft,” Damian supplied.

“Yeah,” Jon said, mollified, “With training I’ll toughen up.”

Damian tilted his head and considered that for a long moment. Jon watched the clock. It was ticking towards the end of break, and Jon hoped the bell wouldn’t ring before Damian had a chance to answer.

“I can take you on a trial run,” Damian said, “My house, this evening.” He pushed the finished French homework towards Jon.

*

Jon handed in the homework the next period. Mr Robertson blinked at it, stunned, but Jon didn’t wait for him to comment, darting back to his seat. He watched the clock, his feet tapping impatiently.

*

It was when they arrived at Damian’s house that Jon started to have doubts. It was a warm, windless night, the sky was silent, a still, deep maroon. Damian wheeled both of their bikes and rested them against the side of the house, taking a moment to make sure they balanced correctly.

“Actually… I don’t know if my dad would like me to learn martial arts,” Jon said, nervously.

“Why not?” Damian asked, digging through his bag to retrieve his house key.

“Well, in martial arts you hurt people, right?”

Damian inserted the key into the lock, turned, and a hidden keypad surfaced from the side of the building, “That’s the idea.”

“He always said I shouldn’t hurt people.”

Damian shot him a look that was so hard it was almost a glare, “Do you want to leave?”

Jon wavered for a moment, “I’ll stay.”

Damian punched in a long code into the keypad. The door gave a clunk and swung open. The house inside was dark and cold, and when Jon crossed the threshold he felt the temperature drop a few degrees. It was like stepping into a tomb.

*

Damian was not the kind of teacher Jon had hoped he’d be.

Damian knew how to teach, sure, after a fashion. But instead of the secretive, prickly boy Jon was getting to know, Damian as a teacher was sharp and difficult in the extreme, downright rude in his criticisms. Learning from Damian was like being thrown into a jet engine and hoping to come out with the ability to fly.

Despite Jon being a new student, Damian didn’t start with simple moves, instead he jumped straight into sparring. If Jon thought his enhanced strength would have put him at an advantage, he was sorely disappointed. Jon couldn’t even land a hit and spent a large part of the evening being tossed around like a dog with a rat.

After being thrown around for a few hours, Damian relented and taught him some simple punches and blocks. These Damian immediately used on him. Jon learned the block with relative success, and while none of his punches landed on Damian, he managed to get the sand bag pretty good.

In the middle of taking his frustrations out on a punching bag, the front door opened. Both Damian and Jon froze.

A beautiful woman opened the door to the training room. She was slight and tall, with sharp, long fingers and a towering posture. Her hair was the colour of dark tea, and shone bronze in the bright light.

“Hello there,” The woman fixed her bright eyes on Jon. The woman looked strikingly like Damian, the same aristocratic eyebrows, the same high, flat cheekbones.

Jon swallowed thickly, a little stunned.

“This is Jonathan Kent, mother,” Damian said, “I am teaching him to fight.”

“Is that such a good idea?” Damian’s mother said, her voice lilting and rich, like honey whiskey, “When one fights all that happens is the violence in the world increases. _The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting_.”

“ _What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease_ ,” Damian quoted back at her.

“Hmm,” Mother smiled shrewdly. She turned her attention to Jon, “My name is Talia Head. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young man.”

“You too,” Jon beamed at her.

“Damian, I heard you dealt with some delinquents a few days ago? I believe it was non-lethally.”

“It was,” Damian glowed with pride, “Only two of them ended up in the hospital.”

Talia smiled at him, “The mark of a great man can be determined by his restraint. Now, I have a gift for you, if you’ll allow another visitor.”

Jon tried to peer around Talia’s legs. He saw something shift in the gloom of the hallway. Talia stepped aside and a tall, dark shape slipped into the training room, claws clicking on the wood. A black Wolfhound, its dark silhouette shaggy and curly.

Damian bounded towards it, scratching behind the ears. The wolfhound wagged its long, low tail, ears pricking.

“She’s a pedigree, of course,” Talia said, “Even temperament, already highly trained. You can give her a name, of course.”

Damian tugged the dog’s huge head towards him and she looked at him with baleful, dark eyes. Her muzzle was specked with grey, her ruff patched with white. It was the nature of wolfhounds to look elderly even as young dogs.

“Desdemona,” Damian decided.

“I like it,” Jon said, “Demona for short?”

Talia nodded, “Perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Desdemona and I have travelled very far. I must bid you goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
> *  
> [Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivan_the_Terrible_and_His_Son_Ivan#/media/File:Iv%C3%A1n_el_Terrible_y_su_hijo,_por_Ili%C3%A1_Repin.jpg)


End file.
